The kaleidoscope of landscapes in the magical orb made Marcus's eyes swim. Parimed had treated him to a grand tour of the capital.
"Unusual? You bet. But damn it, we're no closer to the main question where is that little brat?!" he mentally screamed.
Parimed, slightly drained but with an undiminished spark in his eyes, merely wiped the sweat from his brow, sensing his friend's disappointment. He stepped away from the shimmering orb and moved in close.
"Don't worry, I have one more trick," he whispered and casually plucked a hair from a crevice in Marcus's armor. A fiery red hair.
"Old man, where did you...?" Marcus swallowed, immediately understanding whose head it was from. "And how long has her hair been falling out?" flashed through his mind.
"I'll be straight: our Impi is about as strong as she is stupid. But this hair..." Parimed held it up to the light. "Just need to strain a little, focus on the energy of Being... and it will burn like a beacon. Even in this trifle there is great power, and it will help us."
"Heh, old man, running low on mana in your old age?" Marcus smirked.
"Don't talk nonsense, you brat!" Parimed snorted. "I could shut up the entire Circle single-handedly if I had to. No, this is for something else. It will show us where our boy is hanging out."
"How?"
"Tell me, who wants to find him the most? Katarina." Marcus nervously swallowed. "And you thought right... Her desire is the key. Wherever he is... we'll find him." The old man slightly faltered in his speech, "But it's just a theory."
"Do it," Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. "If needed I'll bring more." "How is that even the tenth question..."
The hair flared up in the archmage's hand the moment he brought it to the orb's surface. The mist inside swirled, churned into a vortex, greedily absorbing the energy through the glass. The storm raged for two minutes, then subsided just as abruptly, yielding to the outlines of a city. They grew clearer with each drawn-out second.
"I recognize it... The merchant quarter, south side," Marcus muttered.
"Umm? What? What's there?" asked Parimed, his eyes tightly closed for better concentration.
"Katarina... What is she doing there?" Marcus pressed against the orb. The picture came alive: there she was on a roof... the seconds of her fall... Right into the arms of some courier.
"Ah, poor bastard..." flashed through Marcus's mind. "Or..."
"Parimed, zoom in here." He poked his finger roughly at the center of the orb.
"I'll try..." the archmage gritted out through his teeth. New beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, his hands trembled. The image slowly, laboriously, swam forward.
Closer, even closer. Marcus found himself almost face to face with the courier. He didn't know everyone by sight, but... He could say for sure: the guy looked strange.
The uniform was the wrong size, and crumpled to boot. Noble couriers were obsessed with their appearance, like all nobles, for that matter.
And then his gaze began catching discrepancies: a white strand of hair escaping from under the aventail, a too-light, cat-like gait for someone in armor, a posture... familiar yet alien.
And then he almost started shaking. "Those eyes... Just like from the portrait."
"What the hell? She's already found him?!" burst out of Marcus. "Parimed, is this... the past? The present? The future?! What is it?"
"I have no idea, my friend..." the archmage rasped.
"Damn it!" Marcus shot up from his spot. "Maybe there's still time..."
Parimed just recoiled from the orb, which instantly went dark.
He sank onto a stack of dusty folios, pulled a short pipe from his robe, and lit it. No offense—just tired satisfaction in his eyes.
"Glad to help, old friend," he said into the void, blowing a ring of white smoke into the tower's silence.
…
Saigo was reeling. After the encounter with Katarina-Phoenix, he ducked into the first alley, pressing his back against the cold stone.
Air whistled in his throat, his heart hammered against his ribs. He had just walked on the thinnest ice... the thought of death scorched his mind, but he sharply cut it off.
"What's under that ice? Better I don't think about it."
"Brr..." He shook his head, shedding the clinging horror.
He needed to change his skin, and urgently. Parting with the courier guise was a pity the mask was convenient. But even the shadow of a possibility that the Empress had remembered him... was worse than torture.
"Knock out another soldier? Too risky. If my trick is discovered, they'll start scouring and checking everyone. I really don't want to be surrounded on a single shout."
He bolted towards the outskirts of the Merchant Quarter, his legs buckling. For a moment, doubt gripped him: "Maybe I shouldn't? I passed through calmly, four or five posts..."
But Katarina's face surfaced in his memory her grin, those eyes.
"No. An extra risk is akin to death, especially in my situation. And..." He glanced at the jagged roofs, black against the twilight sky. "It's much faster across them."
"Decided."
The courier's uniform landed silently in a stinking pit under a bridge. Saigo stripped it off like an old skin.
Underneath his true guise, light and dark. He took a deep breath and the air seemed cleaner. With one springy push, he launched himself onto the nearest roof. Tiles clattered under his feet.
The north side was close…
Marcus was yelling at the coachman, curses flowing like thick, scalding lava. The coachman, pale as chalk, whipped the horses, and the carriage with the Imperial crest raced over the cobblestones, sweeping aside carts and barriers.
The Merchant Quarter was close. People scattered at the sight of the crest like cockroaches from light. The carriage slammed into another post, scattering guards—the wheels wailed horribly against the stones.
Marcus kicked the door open so hard splinters flew. Clattering in his armor like an enraged bull in a smithy, he charged into the alley.
A turn. Another turn. His heart hammered against his ribs, wild, frantic. "Come on, goddess of luck, get your ass up for once!"
Emptiness.
Just dust and stench. His heart still pounded dully in his chest. Marcus grabbed the nearest guardsman, digging his fingers into his chainmail: "Was Katarina here?!"
"Uh, I..." the guard stammered.
"Answer!"
"Yes... The guards were talking about it... But I didn't see her myself..."
"Damn it!" Marcus spat, saliva sizzling on the stones. He then turned and rushed back to the carriage, but the coachman just spread his hands.
"The horses, milord... They can barely breathe..."
"A-A-A!" Marcus's roar cut across the square. Fortunately, his rage had been anticipated—a guard was already leading over a fresh, lathered horse.
Marcus nodded and threw out a short well done and then vaulted into the saddle in one motion. He had one option left: ride to the palace, where a witness awaited him.
…
Saigo was sliding across the roofs again, like a shadow. His nerves had settled, replaced by cold clarity and almost... pleasure. This was his element: the silence above the sleeping city, the agility of his body, the game of cat and mouse with guards stunned by night shifts.
"The ninth one is probably dreaming by now," flashed through his head with a cheeky smirk.
A cascade of jumps across street chasms, silent runs along ridges the rhythm lulled his mind, sharpening his focus.
The goal loomed ahead: the northeastern section of the wall. The gray mass grew clearer with every heartbeat. "Half an hour, max," he thought, quickening his pace.
"And the capital will be left behind."
…
Katarina was dreaming of something wonderful. She was back on that ill-fated roof. And she was falling again maybe even on purpose. And he, like then, caught her.
His strong hands one gripping her thigh, the other her chest sent waves of shivers down her skin. She looked up at his face, hidden by the half-helmet.
A slightly daring smile played on the guy's lips. Her heart stopped. With trembling fingers, she touched his cheek and, barely breathing, clicked the clasp. The helmet fell to the cobblestones with a dull thud.
A real handsome man stood before her. Sharp cheekbones, a commanding chin. And eyes... Green, bottomless, like forest lakes in the height of summer you could drown in them.
She froze, her heart pounding somewhere in her throat, waiting for his word...
"Time," he whispered.
She tilted her head coquettishly, embarrassed:
"Time for what, darling?"
"Time to wake up!" His voice became sharp, alien. And before she could comprehend anything, her body was shaken with such force, as if she were a rag doll, weightless in his hands.
Katarina surfaced from the dream. But the shaking didn't stop. The world swayed and jumped. The sensation was terrifying as if she were being dragged somewhere, to be kidnapped.
With difficulty peeling her sticky eyelids apart, she saw not a kidnapper, but... Marcus. His face, distorted by irritation, looked nothing like the face from her dream.
"Wake up! How could you even get so drunk?" his voice grated on her brain. The air hung with the pungent cocktail of hangover breath and the sour smell of wine.
"What do you want..." Katarina rasped, struggling to focus. "...almost syllable by syllable?"
"Finally awake?" Marcus asked without a hint of sympathy.
Her consciousness, foggy and heavy, was suddenly pierced by a thought. "Did you find him?!"
Marcus just shook his head grimly. "You found him."
The sleepy Empress blinked, not understanding. "This... how?"
"Were you flying over the city tonight?"
"Yes."
"Did you fall off a roof in the Merchant Quarter?"
"Yes?" She nodded, slowly comprehending. "How do you know..."
"Did a courier catch you?" he interrupted.
"Yes!" Katarina perked up, remembering. "He was a cutie! He must be rewarded... He had white hair... and eyes... green... with a slight liner..." She fell silent, massaging her temples, trying to fish the features of his face out of the hangover fog. Marcus's words began to slowly clarify, taking on a terrible meaning.
"Don't tell me..." she exhaled.
"Yes. Your chosen one has already held you in his arms," Marcus confirmed with icy precision.
"DAMN IT!" Katarina howled like a stuck pig. He was so close! And he slipped away again, like a mirage! She threw off the blanket sharply, trying to jump up.
"Where are you going?!"
"To find him! Is he still in the city?!"
"I don't know. But we've already checked all the couriers. And found... the 'original'," his voice was dry. Katarina, not seeing the empty bottle on the floor, tripped and flopped onto the carpet.
"Ouch!"
Marcus, sighing, helped her up. "You're not going anywhere."
"Why?!" she squealed.
"Have you seen yourself? You can't even stand on your feet. Sleep it off first, and I'll handle the rest."
"But..."
"No 'buts'! March to sleep!" His voice became steely, commanding.
In moments of her helplessness, Marcus was the only one who could pressure her—and achieve obedience. She, as always in such cases, gave in. Obediently climbed onto the bed, pulled her knees to her stomach, and stared out the window where dawn was beginning to lighten.
"Don't disappoint me, Marcus," she whispered.
"I wouldn't dare," he firmly replied, turning to leave. This exhausting game of cat and mouse had sickened him, and it was time to end it.
The door closed behind him with a quiet click, leaving Katarina alone with her tangled thoughts.